


pine

by Waywarder



Series: Simply Having an Ineffable Christmastime [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), PINING AM I RIGHT?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21751786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: In which Crowley takes a little nighttime field trip. Sort of a companion piece to my "gold & silver" fic!Part of Drawlight's 31 Days of Ineffables challenge.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Simply Having an Ineffable Christmastime [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558789
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	pine

_One shadow more._

Crowley stepped outside of the bookshop and into the brisk December air. He paused for a moment, considering what to do next. His heart thumped in his chest, practically screaming at him:

_TURN AROUND GO BACK INSIDE KISS HIM YOU COMPLETE STUPID FUCKING IDIOT._

He still tasted wine on his tongue, and still felt the ghost of Aziraphale’s fingers against his when they’d brushed briefly over the snowflake ornament. He closed his eyes, and imagined what it would have been like to have clasped Aziraphale’s hand in his own, to have brought the angel’s knuckles up to his lips…

To have murmured “Merry Christmas, my love, my darling, my sweetheart” instead of “Merry Christmas, Aziraphale.” (Of course, they are the same.)

 _Turn around, idiot. Do it._ His drunk, courageous heart urged.

 _You absolute moron, get the fuck out of here._ His brain now, awful but reasonable.

What do you get when demons sit on both of your shoulders?

Crowley swore into the merry, holly, jolly, fucking holy and bright Christmas night, and stalked away from the shop, shoving his hands into his pockets. Where was he to go? He didn’t want to go home now. Another night of staring into the darkness, alone and drunk and miserable. Of waking up even lonelier still. As he walked, he clocked his anger, and stopped in his tracks.

Finally, a gentle voice: _You didn’t give him something so that you could gain anything. You gave him something because you love him, and sometimes that’s the only way you get to tell someone so._

And less gently: _Don’t be an asshole._

A stolen snowflake from an ugly Christmas tree. That was how Crowley could say, “I love you” right now. Maybe someday he’d get new words, but for now…

Fuck. For now, he needed to sober up. 

Crowley concentrated on forcing the alcohol out of his system. He took a deep breath of the cold air. He still didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t force the Aziraphale out of his system as easily as the booze, and there it was still, swimming up his veins, making him absolutely crazy.

He thought back to the little snowflake he’d nicked from the Dowlings’ hideous monstrosity of a tree. 

He wasn’t much one for Christmas, but, fuck it all, he was going to see a proper tree tonight.

Crowley shut his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was standing in the Pinetum of Kew Gardens. It was well into the night and nearly into the morning now, so he was alone. For a while, he walked along the path ahead of him, willing his brain and his heart to be quiet, to grant him a reprieve for the moment.

He paused in front of a particularly magnificent conifer. Green and strong and tall. Crowley sat upon the Earth, knees bent up in front of him, and regarded the tree. Aziraphale’s voice, reading poetry, naturally, drifted into his head:

_Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend,  
Unnerves his strength, invites his end._

That Emerson. Smart bloke.

“I won’t ever leave you,” Crowley said quietly to the tree. “D’you understand, angel? Not unless you ask. I’m not going anywhere. And you don’t… you don’t have to do anything. Just keep doing your stupid magic tricks, and reading me transcendentalist poetry, and being my friend. Being your friend is more than I thought I’d ever get. And maybe it’s more than you thought you could get, too, and if that’s all you want from me, if that’s all you need… I won’t ever take that away from you.”

And as Crowley realized how true that was-- that he would never take away Aziraphale’s friend on the slight chance that he could have something more-- tears began to flow steadily across his face. Because it was good, it was. Aziraphale deserved a friend. He almost certainly deserved better than Crowley, but Crowley was who he had. And Crowley, heartsick though he was, knew that he would never jeopardize that. 

_Unless…_

Crowley shook his own head. _No “unless,”_ he thought firmly, and in his own voice. _No agenda. Loving him is the best thing about you, so do it right. Be right for him._

And so Crowley sat there in front of that glorious pine tree, allowing the tears to stream down his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you've been following this sweet little series, I promise that they're actually going to go to New York, as suggested in "chestnuts." I just had some feelings to work out!
> 
> Nods to Charles Dickens and Ralph Waldo Emerson in this one, so thank you, gentlemen!


End file.
